


Rupture

by uumuu



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-03
Updated: 2015-07-03
Packaged: 2018-04-07 11:04:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 723
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4261008
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/uumuu/pseuds/uumuu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Finwë is confronted about his parenting.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rupture

Elemmírë had run far and wide in Middle Earth, but she had never run as single-mindedly as when she tore through the corridors of the Royal Palace in Tirion to catch up with Finwë before he could return to the feast hall. 

Her short bright orange tunic over sky-blue pants, which made her stand out among the mostly white-clad throng of Vanyarin guests, had been jokingly described by Indis as a punch in the face. Maybe it was that that suggested to her what she did next, or maybe she was simply furious enough not to think twice about punching the High King of the Ñoldor in the face once she stood in front of him.

Finwë stumbled backwards, but held onto the slim shaft of a column and didn't fall.

“It isn't enough that you got rid of Míriel, is it?” she said before he could speak, and even though she was out of breath, she managed to channel all her contempt through her voice. “Your son needs you.”

Finwë leant against the column, and dabbed at his lower lip with the fingers of his left hand. They were left stained with blood. He grimaced. “He can't be allowed to behave so waywardly. His conduct is an embarrassment to the crown -”

“Embarrassment!” Elemmírë yelled. She strode forward and grabbed him by the collar of his delicate silk robe. “Your son isn't a commodity. He is suffering...but you don't care, do you? It's all about you – _your_ need to have more children, _your_ station, _your_ sorrow. And the child you should be comforting has to bear the burden, all on his own.” She searched his face. Finwë took a couple shaky breaths – she felt them roll under her fists – but didn't say anything. She had hoped the words would elicit a more visceral reaction from him, some form of acknowledgement, but he refused to even look at her. “I have never met someone more cowardly.” 

She let go and stepped back. 

“I....do love Fëanáro,” Finwë mumbled.

He was sincere – he could not have been insincere – but he said it as if it acquitted him of responsibility, as if he was under no obligation to do more. Elemmírë stifled the urge to punch him again, appealing to the memory of all the times she had seen Míriel laugh at his side. She hoped those memories would haunt Finwë, bleed the joy out of his second marriage like leeches. 

“That's not the point,” she spat, turning her back on him.

*

She found Fëanáro sitting on the armchair where she had left him, head downcast, staring at the carpet. He had been disconsolate when she had first found him, but had stopped crying the moment Finwë strode into the room. He stiffened then, blankly listening to his father berate him for bolting from the feast hall, after he had announced that his beloved wife was at last expecting their first child.

The recollection made her feel nauseous again, and guilty. She made a point of going to Tirion whenever an official event gave her an excuse to, but perhaps she ought to do it more often, and spend more time with Fëanáro, whether Finwë granted her permission to or not. 

She knelt in front of the armchair, and opened her arms. 

Fëanáro sprang to his feet and buried himself in her embrace.

She didn't tell him that all would be all right, because he knew it wouldn't, and it wasn't that he needed. “You didn't do anything wrong,” she told him instead, rubbing his back. “It isn't wrong for you to be sad. Your sadness is not a fault.”

He nodded, sniffing against her shoulder. 

“It's okay for you to cry, too.”

He still tried to hold back, but his small body started trembling, yielding to comfort before his mind did. When he pulled back, she gently wiped the tears and snot away from his face with the sleeve of her tunic.

“...do you hate Father?” he asked, with a surprisingly steady voice.

Elemmírë's reply was gentle, but truthful. “I do.”

Fëanáro looked relieved, almost grateful.

“You are allowed to...not love him, if you want to,” she said.

Fëanáro looked her in the eye, and slowly shook his head. The resignation on his face then almost made her cry as well.

“I can't.”

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by a conversation I had on tumblr. Elemmírë here is the same as in Glass Skin.


End file.
